


Five Years (and it ends like This).

by Hoffmannism



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: (i mean it's more mentioned than explicit but y'know e rating just to be sure), (like very minor), (lots of guns), Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Brussels, Guns, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Canon, Ressler whump, Sorry Not Sorry, there's also a lot of suffering on Ressler's side, what i AM sorry for is the infinite amount of commas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22024726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoffmannism/pseuds/Hoffmannism
Summary: Ressler knows his failure will have consequences. |  Pre-Canon fragment including: What Happened In Brussels™ & suffering Ressler (our favourite Ressler).
Relationships: Julian Gale/Donald Ressler, Raymond Reddington/Donald Ressler
Comments: 6
Kudos: 68





	Five Years (and it ends like This).

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so first of all I was in a flow and wrote this all in a day and now my brain is scrambled and I'm sad. 
> 
> ALSO I cannot believe no one has written Ressler/Gale before?! That ship was served on a silver platter, guys! (Still, this is mostly Resslington because I'm very dumb).
> 
> English is not my first language so please excuse any mistakes! Thanks. Also, the author (that's me) appreciates any form of feedback (like, I will weep). ♥ 
> 
> And as always, I don't know what this is and I should probably stop with all the excuses for my stories.  
> Hope you'll enjoy!!  
> -Karen
> 
> (The title's "And it ends like this:" is from "Meteorites" from Yann Tiersen's wonderful album 'Infinity'.)

// // //  
  
  
  
  
  
  


One year. One fucking year and they're still no closer to getting Reddington. It's infuriating, really, but Donald Ressler is determined. They didn't give him this job for nothing; they all know he can do it - although, Ressler admits, maybe not. Maybe this is all wasted time. Maybe he isn't the right man to do it after all, or Reddington is just _too good_ (Hell, he _knows_ he is), and instead of making his name Ressler will end up as the laughingstock of the bureau. The naive boy who wanted too much. The loser who threw away his whole life in persuit of the impossible. They'd give him a 'You tried'-badge the day this taskforce would inevitably be shut down - nothing more. Maybe a pat on the back and a half-smile. _There'll always be a next time_ , they'll say. But a next time isn't good enough for him. So he holsters his gun, gets his coat and tells his men to move. They'll have to be in Beijing by tomorrow morning.   
  
  
//   
  
  
  
Another year goes by and Donald isn't sure if he has even slept in all that time. He throws himself completely into his task, chasing Reddington all over the globe, bending backwards to get even the smallest hint about the criminal's whereabouts, and sometimes he's sure that it won't be for nothing. Other days the doubts come back. He ignores them, makes the case the center of his life. He has nothing else left and he doesn't even notice it.   
  
And Audrey is gone in the blink of an eye. For her it had been an eternity since they last had a conversation in which the word "Reddington" wasn't spoken. It had been months, countless months, since she last had his undivided attention. When they had sex it had always felt like Raymond Reddington was there, in their room, watching them.   
  
And Ressler is shattered, of course, and throws himself even deeper into his work.   
  
"You're obsessed, man. You need a break", Julian tells him one day, about a week after Audrey has left, and deep down Ressler knows he's right. He's slept even less than before. Hasn't eaten in a day. Must look like Hell, with dark bags under his eyes, hair a mess, tension in his shoulders and back, and it's only getting worse from one day to the next. And now it's 4am and he's re-reading the files of an art robbery in Riyadh that Reddington was involved in. He knows it by heart by now but there's nothing else he can do. Not until 7am when their flight leaves.   
  
He doesn't answer, just watches as Julian leaves the small office. With a sigh he sets down the files and rubbs his eyes. He would catch some sleep on the plane.   
  
  
//   
  
  
Another six months later and Ressler thinks he's slowly going insane.   
It's not possible how Reddington is always _(always)_ one step ahead of them. Always knows when they'll make a move. Always knows they're there. Right behind him but still out of reach. It's come to the point where Ressler is sure they have a leak somewhere. How else is Reddington supposed to know all he does? He sits down in his hotel room in Marseille, files of everyone on his taskforce spread out on the bed before him, and starts to think hard.   
  
It's almost as hard a task as getting Reddington, but after another sleepless night he has sorted it out. He stares at Miller's file and hopes he's wrong. Hopes that Reddington is just _that good_.   
  
  
Next day in the field, Donald has a close eye on Miller. He seems normal. And when they confront some money launderer who's almost certainly working for Reddington, Miller does a good job. There's nothing out of the ordinary. He keeps watching him for a few weeks - once gets the chance to look through his cellphone which, with a bit of a bad conscience, he does - but finds absolutely nothing. He sighs in relief and smiles, perhaps for the first time since Audrey is gone, and a weird kind of pleasure spreads through his veins.   
  
_Reddington_ , he thinks. It's just a game for the Concierge of Crime. He downs the rest of his beer, puts the glass down. _The game is on._  
  
And in the following months he realizes just what an adrenaline junkie he is. How much pleasure it gives him to chase down Reddington without that stubborn, grim determination that got in his way far too often. He'd get him. He'd be rewarded for all he's done, all he's sacrificed. _I'll get you._  
  
  
//   
  
  
Gale is all over him. It's more of a stress relief than anything else. A good fuck to keep focused, to find sleep, to seek comfort. They never wake up together; it's an unspoken rule. They don't talk about it, either. It just happens from time to time, and they make sure it doesn't distract them from work. No feelings involved. It works for them, for now.   
  
  
//  
  
  
Three years since the taskforce was called into life. Three fucking years and now, finally, it seems that it would come to an end. Brussels is nice this time of the year, but Ressler can't enjoy the blue, coudless sky and the finchs' sweet songs. This is it. The moment he has been working for for three years. It seems absurd now, unreal somehow. Everything he's done, all his efforts, gone with the pull of his trigger.   
  
The rifle is in perfect position. So is Ressler, behind the rifle. "Train coming in", he hears Julian's voice in his ear. Then he hears the train. Then the only thing he hears is the pounding of his heart. He concentrates. It has all come down to this moment. _Focus_ , Ressler tells himself.  
  
There are a lot of people, and Ressler searches them for the fugitive. "There he is!", he hears Miller now, "At the bakery. I don't have a clear shot though."   
  
And sure enough, Ressler spots him, Reddington, at a small shop, smiling and chatting with the salesman while he waits for his order. He has a clear shot. There's nothing between them. No one. He sees the criminal through the visor, directly in his firing line. He breathes deeply as his heart starts beating like he's just run a marathon - he fears it will simply jump out of his mouth, can feel it pumping in his throat. _Focus!_ Suddenly he's not so sure he can do it anymore. This, right here, has been his life for three years. What will he do once Reddington is behind bars? _No, focus_ , he tells himself. And then he can see himself in some weeks or months, behind a desk, pushing papers, the glory of this moment long forgotten. Raymond Reddington, just another scumbag who's been put to justice. "Fuck", he mutters, tries to trick his brain and just _pull the damn trigger_ , don't think about it, just _do it!,_ but his finger won't move, as much as he tries, he just cannot shoot Raymond Reddington. Sweat drips down his face and he wants to weep - it's simple, really, and he doesn't have much time left, he just needs to pull the trigger now, before Reddington moves, he just needs to - and Raymond Reddington looks at him. Looks him right in the eyes, through the rifle's visor, and he _smiles,_ the bastard smiles! and turns away, coffee and pretzel in hand, disappearing in the crowd, leaving Donald completely alone.   
  
Not completely. "The fuck was that!", Gale's voice gets through to him, through his stupor and silent panic. He shakes his head in an attempt to regain posture. Swipes the sweat off his forehead and neck. "I didn't have a clear shot", he says, automatically, as he slowly disassembles the rifle. He wants to drink himself half-blind now, but he knows he has some explaining to do.   
  
He can't, though. Just as he couldn't shoot Reddington just moments ago.   
  
  
"That's bullshit, Don, you know it!"   
  
The calm that sweeps over him is frightening, but a welcome distraction from the panic his mind is in.   
  
"You're willing to shoot an innocent bystander and explain that to the bureau, that's fine. I'm not."   
  
He pulls the earpiece out and stuffs it in his pocket. _Fuck this_ , he thinks. _Fuck fuck fuck. I fucked up big time._ Yet the regret he knows should set in about now doesn't come.   
  
  
  
//  
  
  
  
He knows his failure will have consequences. Maybe Internal Affairs will investigate. He'll get pulled off the case, be demoted, sitting behind a desk for the rest of his so-called career.   
  
So when they get back to the hotel without speaking a word, a goes straight to his room, calls the room-service and orders a bottle of whiskey. He doesn't care that it's far too expensive. He doesn't care about much at all, right now. Or maybe he cares too much, about too many things at once, and it all becomes a deafening blur. All he knows is that he doesn't regret what he's done today. He knows he should. But he doesn't. Anger flares up in him and he kicks the chair to the ground. Only moments later he hears a knocking on his door. He opens it. It's one of the hotel staff with the whiskey. He gives a court thanks, minding his manners (the poor girl is not to blame for his fuck up), and closes the door louder than neccessary.   
  
On the shelf, he finds glasses. He reaches up to take one, but stops mid-motion. He doesn't need a glass. Not tonight. It's not like anyone's here with him to share a drink.   
  
So he just opens the bottle and drinks right out of it. The whiskey is just what he needs right now, burning and unforgiving. He sets down the bottle on the desk, toes off his shoes and strips off the jacket. Opens the first few buttons of his shirt; lets the tie fall to the floor, right next to the chair.   
  
He takes his gun out of the holster and puts it on the nightstand, then goes back to retrieve the bottle and lets himself fall back onto the bed. With a sigh, he takes another swig, trying to enjoy the heat down his throat, but never quite managing. Not after the first sip, not after almost a quarter of the bottle. He's sitting on the floor now, back against the bed, head empty and too full at once, and the night is far too warm for Brussels in spring. It almost feels mediterranean. But that's probably just him.   
  
Before his eyes he sees Reddington. Just Reddington and his damn arrogant smile. The bastard _knew_ Ressler has been there. He _knew_ he wouldn't shoot. How could he - ? It doesn't matter, it's done now, Reddington is far gone by now, somewhere in Asia, probably, living his best life, leaving Agent Ressler completely exposed and utterly alone in his own misery. All that remains is the image of that smile. He hates it. Hates it so much he wants to throw that stupid bottle against the wall, destroy the whole interior of the room, scream and crawl until he has him. But now that - thanks to him - they have to start all over again in their search for the criminal, that will likely take some time.   
  
He drinks. He hears the door open and he's sure it's Gale, come to either kill or fuck him, and he turns to yell at him to fuck off, but no sound escapes his lips. It's not Gale. It's Raymond Reddington, who's silently closing the door behind him, looking completely at ease with the whole situation, with everything - so completely the opposite of what's going on inside Ressler and - how dare he?! - after a few seconds of initial shock his brain starts working again and he scrambles to his gun but - he hears Reddington cocking his own gun first so he stops dead in his tracks.   
  
"Hello, Donald", he says, and the familiarity with which he talks to him - uses his first name - makes Ressler swallow down bile. "I wouldn't do that if I were you", he continues with a nod to Ressler's gun on the nightstand. "Well, not if I didn't have a deathwish in the first place", he adds, amused, and Ressler is sure he's gonna die tonight. _Karma, bitch_ , he thinks, _you should have shot him today._   
  
"How the Hell did you get in here?", Donald asks, not daring to move, or even breathe. "There are a dozen Agents here."   
  
And Reddington laughs, actually _laughs_ , at that. "Oh, I have to admit, it was a bit risky getting here, but in the end I just took the elevator and pressed the right button."   
  
Ressler scowled. "How did you know which room I'm in?", he asks, already dreading the answer.   
  
"I know all sorts of things about you, Agent Ressler. And there's nothing a small bribe can't achieve. Look at those poor people, working over-hours day after day for next to no money, I'm always happy to help them out."   
  
Ressler doesn't know what to say. So he keeps quiet. If Reddington wants to shoot him he should just do it now instead of talking. But Reddington looks all too relaxed, not like he's about to commit a murder (then again, _murderer!_ , his head helpfully says, _this is routine for him, killing obstacles along the way_ ); he pulls up the chair and sits down. "So, Donald, I was curious. You had the chance to kill me today. Finally, after three years of chasing me, that must have felt like a dream come true. But you didn't. Why?"   
  
Ressler sits straighter. "I didn't have a clear shot. I didn't want to hurt inno-"   
  
"You can tell that to your dim FBI-friends, but not to me. You had a _perfectly_ clear shot. You just had to pull the trigger and boom, one less problem for you and your small, black-and-white world. Really easy. So. Why didn't you do it?"   
  
Ressler stays silent. He can't tell him. Hell, he isn't even sure himself - and now Reddington looks at him with curious, dangerous eyes and he feels completely naked.   
  
"Good, then don't tell me. Just know that you had one _Hell_ of a chance today that most people don't get. You just blew a once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity, congratulations. I mean, good for me, obviously, but you and your little taskforce won't get another attempt. I slipped today. But that won't happen again."   
  
And with that, Reddington turns to leave the room. Ressler will have none of it. He may be drunk, but he's also pissed as Hell so he stumbles to his feet and grabs the man, his body moving on autopilot as he swiftly disarms him and presses him against the wall, his own gun against his throat. And there it is again, that knowing smile that pisses him off even more and he tightens his hold, panting.   
  
"I'll get you", Ressler growls, "In fact, I got you _right now_. Seems like you were a little too full of yourself this time; that coming here was a mistake after all. Tell you what, _Reddington_ : I'll tell you why you came here tonight. Not to kill me, ridicule or intimidate me, no. You came here because you realized that I was finally worthy of your attention. That I'm not just another stupid fed on your tail."   
  
Reddington chuckles. "Now who's a little too full of himself, Donald? Yes, I admit that I didn't expect you to come this far. True. But what really drew me here was your inability to shoot me today. You normally don't have any inhibitions on that department. So what's different with me? Why spare me? You must realize that even if you arrest me one day I'll get the death penalty. So I'll die either way. Why hesitate?"   
  
Ressler can't stop the rush of heat that's taking over his body. Of course, everything Reddington says is right. So why - why couldn't he? "I don't -"  
  
"I'll tell you why: you've become compromised. Attached. It's an intensive job, yes, and you've fully committed yourself to it. No balance, no one to keep your mind in line, just chasing me all over the world and back. Nothing else. You have nothing - no one - left but me. I'm all you have, Donald." Ressler shakes his head, willing to make the words - the rightness of those words - go away; to no avail. They're stuck in his head now, buried in his chest, and won't let him go. Not ever, perhaps. He's trembling, scared the ground won't hold him any longer; slipping away, unretrievable, and he's falling, although he mustn't -   
  
The hand with Reddington's gun sinks. The gun falls to the ground; it has become too heavy for Ressler. He doesn't even notice how he sinks against the criminal, knees weak, shaking, and unable to hold him any longer. He just wants to sleep. Forever, maybe. Never has he felt this exhausted. Not during exams, not when his father died, not when Audrey left him. His entire body is heavy with the weight of the world and more, and he can't take it, can't do anything but sink. Reddington's scent lulls him in, and somewhere in the back of his head his thoughts are spiralling out of control - _what are you doing - take the gun - call Gale - arrest him - fuck you - not now, you can sleep later - do something!_ \- but he tells himself _there'll be a next time_ , although, perhaps, he doesn't want it to.   
  
"Fuck you", he finally says with the last ounce of strength he has left. He looks at Reddington, his face utterly unreadable.   
  
  
"You'll get through this", Reddington says and it's almost like he's drawing him into an embrace. Not quite, though. He just stops Ressler from falling over. "Fuck you", Ressler repeats, weaker. What has he done to his life? And he doesn't know if it really happens or if he's just imagining it or if it's just a stray tear against his lips, but he thinks Reddington is kissing him - quick and chaste and more like a whisper - and he doesn't mind at all. Wants it to happen again. But it doesn't. He can feel the mattress under his back - and when has he closed his eyes? Doesn't matter, he hasn't got the energy to open them again - and the door closing. And then, it all goes dark.   
  
  
//  
  
  
The next few weeks go by like a nightmare: unbelievably slow and torturing, but as soon as the worst is over it's almost forgotten again. They believed his lie. Only he knows. _And Reddington_ , he thinks, but never voices it. The criminal's words are stuck in his head. He can still smell him, feel him, and if it wasn't for the abandoned gun he found on the floor next to his bed the day after Reddington's visit, he'd have believed that he'd dreamt the whole thing up. A drunk fantasy, nothing more. But he has Reddington's gun in his go-bag, buried at the very bottom of it. He doesn't know what to do with it so he keeps it, waiting to come back to Washington so he can hide it somewhere in his apartment. Maybe it will come in handy at some point in time.   
  
And right now he's sitting on a plane to Dubai, not sure where to go from here. Not sure if he should keep following Reddington at all or - yeah, he could just throw it all away and do, what, exactly? Swiping floors in some fucked up bar? Sure, not gonna happen. He has to do this.   
  
They arrive at their hotel and Ressler takes a shower. He hates himself for it, but it's not the first time he jacks off to the picture of Raymond Reddington before his eyes.   
  
  
  
//   
  
  
  
It's four months later that he slips. Gale is fucking him in his hotel room in Dublin, hard and fast the way they need it after another frustrating day of running from one dead end into the other. It's good, it almost always is, and it takes his mind away from the cold, unforgiving reality he's found himself in those last couple of years. It also takes his mind to Reddington again. Not the criminal Reddington they're trying to catch; rather the man himself as he was in the hotel room in Brussels almost half a year ago. As he closes his eyes and feels Julian inside of him he can't help but wonder - would Reddington fuck him like this? Or sweeter, softer? Slower perhaps, torturing him with sweet bliss and whispered promises of relief? Would his hands around his hips leave bruises? Or would he choke him, enthralled by the sight of Ressler in pure extasy? God, he can just picture it - him under Red's merciless hands, moaning and begging, forgetting all his pride and dignity; he's a complete mess and loves it, knowing Red loves it too, and he gets off on it, they both do, and Jesus - "God, yeah, yes, Red, please" - he only realizes his mistake when Julian suddenly pulls out of him, staring at him in shock.   
  
"Fucking Christ, Don, did you just - ?" They both know he did, and Ressler doesn't know how to respond. "Julian, I - that wasn't -", he tries, but can't finish. He wouldn't know how.   
  
"Yeah, sure, your tongue slipped, I get it - happens to me all the time that I moan the name of that bloody criminal during sex, no problem!" He's getting off the bed, gathering his clothes. Ressler wants to hit himself with a large brick - how does he always manage to fuck everything up this bad?   
  
"Listen, let's just forget about that, okay?" And sure enough, he follows Gale off the bed and gets on his knees for the man, taking his cock into his mouth. It's not just an attempt to soothe the other agent; he needs to make sure not to say another word again.   
  
"I dunno, man. I mean - uhh - I like your way of apologizing so - ahhh - I'll drop it for now."  
  
And Ressler starts imagining things again as he's sucking Gale's cock. Would Reddington's be smaller? Bigger? Thicker, probably. He can bet that the criminal would love Ressler on his knees for him; completely submitting, eagerly taking Red's cock into his hungry mouth. God, he feels like such a slut. But maybe that's not a bad thing. Why deny oneself the things one enjoys?   
  
"Touch yourself", Gale orders, and he does; what he also does is imagining how Reddington would say it. He almost comes at the thought of that. Julian's hands in his hair are gripping tighter now, holding him in position as he fucks Don's mouth, and he almost chokes but it's fucking _good_ , and suddenly Reddington is back again, praising him - _"That's good, yeah, just like this - you enjoy choking on that cock, don't you? A right little slut you are, Donald. Who would have thought."_ \- and he comes violently in his hand and all over the floor while Julian still fucks him.   
  
Then Gale comes too; with some difficulty Don swallows before he can breathe again. His legs are tense and shaky and he's glad he's already on the floor as he slumps back against the bed. Gale joins him there and they both recover. Breaths evening out, a tense silence follows, each in their own thoughts. Then Gale looks at him. He looks like he wants to say something, some accusation probably, but he doesn't. He just gathers his clothes once again, dresses silently and leaves. Ressler sighs.   
  
  
  
//  
  
  
A month later and Gale is through with him. Says, "It's like Reddington is there in the room with us", and doesn't that remind him of when Audrey left? He almost laughs.   
  
They still work together perfectly and Ressler is thankful that Gale hasn't told anyone about his fuck up. The taskforce doesn't need that, too.   
  
So they resume their work as before, and Ressler is more determined than ever, fuelled by the desire to find Reddington. Whether to arrest him or - just be near him, he doesn't know.   
  
  
//  
  
  
  
The next time he sees Reddington is in a casino in Naples. It's crowded and Ressler keeps losing sight of him. And just when he thought the criminal was completely gone, he stands right in front of the agent.   
  
"Hello, Donald", he says casually, and Ressler doesn't quite know how to reply.   
  
"Reddington", he just says. And there's the criminal's knowing smile again that does a great job to piss Ressler off. "Then Brussels wasn't such a _once-in-a-lifetime-_ opportunity, was it?", he teases and is happy when Reddington laughs at that.   
  
"Well, no, but to be fair, I've made it very easy for you this time. But don't you worry, should you or any of your friends get the idea of shooting someone or arresting me, I have a dozen men around the room who won't hesitate to blow your heads off. Oh, by the way, you should try the Sex on the Beach here, I believe they add a bit of cinnamon for the special touch, if you know what I mean, anyway, it's _delicious_!"   
  
Ressler rolls his eyes. He really hates the man. "This one goes to you, Reddington, but believe me -", but Reddington interrupts him. " _This one?_ My dear Donald, you have yet to make a single point! If this was a game of soccer or basketball or the like, your team had not a single chance to win the game. But good luck to you, I have to get back to business. So, if you and your team would be so kind and get out of this établissement, I would be _very_ thankful." And with that he turns and goes, disappearing into the crowd. "Sure", Ressler says to nobody in particular, then orders his team to leave.   
  
  
//  
  
  
Five years. Five fucking years. He's completely exhausted. Five years of running and falling and failing, all over again, and getting up afterwards is getting harder and harder each time. Sometimes he loses sight of why they're doing this. _Because it's the right thing_ , his brain tells him, _because he's a criminal and a wanted fugitive._ But it all seems so banal sometimes. Then he reads the file again that is his little secret ( _one_ of his little secrets, and probably the smallest). It's the ballistics report on the gun Red had left in his hotel room in Brussels. He lied to them, too, telling them he'd found the bullet in a wall at a Reddington-related crime-scene somewhere in Taiwan, when in reality he'd fired the gun in the woods of D.C. to get to the bullet. If anyone had noticed, they hadn't said anything. The bullet matches with a double murder. Some unimportant drug-traffickers. Their killer was never found. He knows now it was Reddington, and he has the proof.  
  
  
So here he is, five years after his initial excitement about being part of this taskforce, completely exhausted and confused and questioning everything, even the black-and-white world that he was so sure existed.   
But the worst thing is the yearning. Would it ever stop? Is that what junkies feel in-between hits?   
  
His phone rings. They have a lead, a pretty good one, and they need to get to Belgrade as soon as they can.   
  
  
//  
  
  
Their information leads them to an old warehouse; apparently Reddington has set a meeting with a local mobster, and judging by the parked cars in front of the warehouse, they're not too late. Two guards are standing directly at the entrance, observing the compound. They haven't noticed the taskforce yet. Ressler pulls out his silencer from a pocket on his vest. No need to alarm other guards or Reddington himself. He sees Gale opposite of him doing the same; when they're done they look at each other, nod, and simultaneously take a shot.   
  
The guards drop dead to the floor.   
  
  
Cautiously the taskforce moves closer to the entrance. Waiting a moment so everyone is ready he looks at his team, seeing determination and hope in their eyes, and he has to suppress his own, private hopes before he quickly opens the door, weapon drawn, and they move in, yelling, taking in the situation. Just two more guards, the Serbian, and Reddington. As the guards draw their guns he fires, just like Miller does, and they go down. Weapons pointed at the two remaining criminals, they raise their hands over their heads. "Hello, Donald", Reddington says as always, just not as smug and jovial. That's a small win for Ressler, at least.   
  
"Really, Reddington, you should keep closer watch on your friends. They might just end up stabbing you from behind." And now Reddington smirks. "You know, Donald, as I like to say: better skillfully from behind than clumsily from the front. And speaking of behind, you better put your weapons down or someone might get hurt." Questioning, Ressler looks at Gale, then turns to see twice as many men as his own taskforce, each armed, weapons pointing at them, right behind them. He has no chance. Fuck Reddington and his back-up. Fuck this. His team is putting their weapons down. He should be, too. But he just lowers it.  
  
  
"I'm very sorry, Donald, but I'm afraid you won't get a point again this time. Well! There's always a next time, am I right?" And with that, Ressler yanks his gun back up, not to shoot, just to intimidate, negotiate, and he feels the pain in this right shoulder before he hears the shot. He falls to his knees. _Fuck... this isn't how it's supposed to end.  
  
_And it's not just one shot. There are several before Reddington steps in with a shout of "Stop shooting!"; they do. He hears the slump of a body. It's Miller.   
  
Reddington is stepping closer, leaning down to him. "I told you to put your guns down. Why must you always play the hero?" Red shakes his head. And as the blood keeps flowing from his body his head gets lighter, and Ressler tries to reach out for him. "Please", he stammers, and he feels completely helpless. How could he fuck this up this bad? Again?   
  
  
"I'm sure we'll meet again, Agent Ressler. Know that our little game of cat and mouse was genuine fun for me. But it's over now. You won't win, Donald, and the sooner you come to terms with that, the sooner you can start having a life again." And then he kisses him. On the cheek only, but it's long and sweet and wet, and Ressler could have cried.   
  
And then Reddington is gone and he can hear Julian's voice yelling into his phone for an ambulance - _it doesn't matter anymore_ , Ressler wants to say, but the words won't come out - and Ritchie's cries for help as he presses something against Ressler's shoulder, and his head falls to his side, staring directly in Miller's dead eyes. And it's his fault. Darkness claws at him and he welcomes it; it takes away the pain and the guilt and the yearning, and he wants nothing more than to sleep and to forget.   
  
  
  
//   
  
  
  
  
He wakes up in a hospital in Belgrade. Julian is sitting next to his bed on a white plastic chair, reading whatever shitty magazine they had in the hospital shop. He looks up when Ressler stirrs.   
  
"Good morning", he says. Like it's just another day. Like he wasn't just shot and blew the whole fucking mission and - and had gotten a man killed. Miller.   
  
But Ressler is too tired to be angry. He knows that later he will be. He will be fuming. But right now he doesn't have the strength for that much emotion. He just feels empty and shallow like a grave.   
  
  
Ressler looks at Gale, long and hard, trying to figure out his life.   
  
"How long was I - ?", he asks. His throat is dry and Julian hands him the glass of water that stands ready on the nightstand.   
  
"'Bout two days. You lost a lot of blood, pal. Glad you're alive, though."   
  
_Well, I'm not._ He doesn't voice it.   
  
  
//  
  
  
Two days later, they're on their way back to D.C.; Ressler needs to tell Miller's fiancée about what happened. He doesn't have to, but chooses to do it himself. He deserves the pain of seeing a shattered future in Marlene's pretty green eyes when she fully comprehends what his stammered words mean and breaks down in his arms.   
  
He recovers - physically. Writes the last report on the Belgrade-disaster. Readily takes all the blame. He isn't surprised when they tell him the taskforce is being dissolved. It still hurts like a bitch though. Five years of giving all he has, all he is - _was_ \- five years of breaking and falling apart. That all ends now. A complete failure. That's what he feared all those years ago when he was just frustrated with the slow progress of the hunt and Reddington's quick and clever moves. When all was simple and black and white.   
  
And the truth is, he doesn't know where to go from here. All he knows is that Reddington had been right that night in Brussels so many lifetimes ago.  
  
  
  
_He's all I have_.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
